Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [91]
Wiping the newest layer of sweat from my face, I spend ten minutes following the curve of the railroad tracks back through the tunnel—but unlike the brown and gray dreariness of the other parts, the walls back here are filled with red and white graffiti spray-painted directly on the rock: Ramp This Way . . . Lift Straight Ahead . . . 7850 Ramp . . . Danger Blasting. Each sign has an arrow pointing in a specific direction—but it’s not until I follow the arrows that I finally realize why. Up ahead, my light doesn’t disappear up the never-ending tunnel. Instead, it hits a wall. The straightaway’s over. Now there’s a fork in the road with five different choices. Shining the light on each one, I reread the signs and examine each new tunnel. Like before, four of them are caked in dried mud, while one’s wet and fresh. Danger Blasting. Damn.
Retracing my steps, I open my wallet, pull out my bright pink California Tortilla Burrito Club card, and wedge it under a rock by the entrance of the tunnel I just left—the mining equivalent of leaving bread crumbs. If I can’t find my way out, it doesn’t matter how far in I get.
Following the sign that says Danger Blasting, I make a sharp right into the tunnel, which I quickly realize is slightly wider than the rest. From there, I stick with the train tracks, following the soupy mud through a fork that goes left, and another that goes right. Spray-painted signs again point to Lift and 7850 Ramp, but the arrows are now pointing in different directions. To be safe, I put down more bread crumbs at each turn. My Triple-A card at the first left, the scrap of paper that holds my list of movies to rent at the next right. The distances aren’t far, but even after two minutes, the jagged walls . . . the muddy train tracks—everything in every direction looks alike. Without the wallet bread crumbs, I’d be lost in this labyrinth—and even with them, I’m still half expecting to turn the corner and be back by Viv. But as I make a left and wedge my gym membership card under a rock, my eye catches something I’ve never seen before.
Dead ahead . . . less than thirty feet . . . the tunnel widens slightly on the right, making space for a narrow turnoff that holds a bright red mining car that looks like an ice-cream pushcart with a sail attached to the roof. Up close, the sail is nothing more than a plastic shower curtain, and on top, the cart is sealed by a circular door that looks like a hatch on a ship, complete with one of those rotating steering wheel twist locks. There’s clearly something inside—and whatever it is, if it’s important enough to put a lock on it, it’s important enough for me to open.
Shoving the sail out of the way, I grip the steering wheel with both hands and give it a hard twist. Red paint cracks off in my hands, but the hatch lets out a metal thunk. With a strong tug, I crack the hatch and pull it open. The smell hits me first. Stronger than the acidic stench of vomit . . . sharper than bad cheese . . . Ugggh . . . Crap. Literally.
Inside the hatch is a mound of juicy brown lumps. The whole cart’s filled with shit. Tons of it. Stumbling backwards, I hold my nose and fight to keep myself from throwing up. Too late. My stomach heaves, my throat erupts, and a firehose of last night’s grilled cheese sprays across the earth. Bent over and grabbing my gut, I spray the ground two more times. All the blood rushes to my face as I spit out the last few chunks. My body lurches with one final dry heave . . . then another. By the time I open my eyes, my light’s shining off the long, extended strand of drool that dangles from my lower lip. I glance back up at the wagon, and it finally makes sense. The shower curtain’s for privacy; the hatch is the seat. Even this far underground, these guys still need a bathroom.
Banging into the